


You Must Please Remember

by Das_verlorene_Kind



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Angst, Body Horror, M/M, Smut, Trick Or Pete
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 17:23:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21256922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Das_verlorene_Kind/pseuds/Das_verlorene_Kind
Summary: “You’re the first person I talked to in a long time,” the boy says quietly.What Pete wants to tell him is that he hasn’t talked to any other living person in a long time either. What Pete wants to tell him are things likefriendship makes no sense when all we can look forward to is losing each otherandyour lips are too pretty. What Pete thinks would be best to tell him is to go, get lost, and never come back.“Pete,” he says instead, “my name is Pete.”For the first time, the boy’s pretty lips curl into a smile. “My name is Patrick.”





	You Must Please Remember

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! Happy Halloween, everyone! This is my entry for this year's Trick Or Pete, our fun little fic challenge~
> 
> Ophiocordyceps unilateralis does exist, although in the real world, it only infects ants - for now... Well, I took my liberties with science and biology, and I'm not a doctor, so please don't take any medical advice from this fic, haha. 
> 
> As the tags say, there's some body horror in this fic, so keept that in mind. Title is stolen from a Morrissey song.  
Also, this is unbeta'd. English is not my first language, so please forgive any mistakes.  
Artwork by me. 
> 
> Enjoy!

The worst thing is, they knock.

Pete is sitting on the floor, curled up into a ball, hands over his ears, eyes pressed together. Reality still worms its way inside his brain, and he can’t stop hearing the soft knocking on the old, rotten wood. Pete wants to scream, both out of frustration and to drown out the dreaded noise from the outside world, but he’s too scared it’ll attract even more of them. He’s lost count of how many there are, he just knows they’re _there_, and they keep knocking.

_Knock. Knock. Knock. Let me in. Let. Me. In. _

No one knows how it all started, how it happened. There are whispers, rumors, conspiracy theories, long think-pieces were published before thinking became obsolete.

All everyone knows it that somewhere in the tropical forest ecosystems, a fungus named _Ophiocordyceps unilateralis_ infects a certain type of ants, breaking through the insect’s exoskeleton, and manipulating its behavior to fit the parasitic fungus’s need.

It sounds like science fiction, a parody almost, only headline-worthy for the catchy phrase of zombie ants. A small and insignificant quirk of nature that makes for a shudder when David Attenborough’s calm voice with the delightful British accent narrates about its abhorrent behavior in a BBC documentary.

That is where _ Ophiocordyceps unilateralis _would have stayed, had it stayed inside the depth of the tropical forest. Except it hasn’t.

No one knows when it happened, who was patient zero, what caused the mutation.

All that matters is that at one point, _ Ophiocordyceps unilateralis _ took to humans as a host. Spores infect the brain, spread over soft tissue, acquired a tight grip over humanity.

To serve the fungus’ need to spread, the ants climb to the highest spots, bite down, and die. This tactic doesn’t work for the human hosts, but it doesn’t need to. The best way to infect more humans is to simply go where there are more humans. Lots of them. All living closely together.

Whatever region the fungus manipulates in a human brain, it makes them search for human company, in whatever way possible. The infected, basically brain-dead and barely able to cling to life, let alone operate their body, still move on, driven by that deepest, darkest need to go find more people to infect.

Where do humans live? Inside buildings. How does one get access? They knock. Knock. Knock.

And they keep knocking.

Are they zombies? The infected aren’t dead, they didn’t rise from the grave, and they do not crave the taste of human flesh. The human brain is a delicate matter, and while it can be manipulated, the fungus destroys most of its functionality. Those infected operate on whatever primal instinct there is left, their only direction to carry out what the fungus infecting their slowly decaying brains needs them to do – find more hosts to infect, and die at the most convenient place for _ Ophiocordyceps unilateralis _ to spread as far and wide as possible. They can walk, hurl out a twisted parody of words, and worst of all, the fungus still manages to make them remember that to gain entry, one has to knock.

And they never stop.

Tears stream down Pete’s face; a foolish reaction, because fluids are precious and crying won’t help him anyways. But he is all alone in an abandoned house surrounded by these _things_ , full of a parasitic fungus about to turn them all into walking carcasses as they rot everyone’s brain away. Pete would prefer if they had actually died, if they’d come back from the dead because that means that at least, death happened. These _things_, there’s still something uncannily alive in them, and they aren’t violent, aren’t out for blood, aren’t as detached from humanity as actors on the screen. They’re just out to get as close as possible to as many people as they can to further spread mankind’s doom.

Are they zombies? Well, Pete doesn’t fucking care. He just wishes they’d stop knocking. That they would all drop dead and leave him to get infected by the spores as well, just to get it over with. He can’t take the haunting sound of knuckles knocking against wood, disrupted by the occasional garbled attempt at speech.

Of course, they don’t do him that favor. Which gives Pete two options – lie on the floor and give up, or get up one last time to see if maybe, he can make it out of one of the windows without being seen, escaping death one more (and perhaps last) time. A futile attempt, there’s so many of them and only one of Pete; he needs to escape every time, they only need to catch him once. Pete tugs at his surgical face mask, which supposedly helps against the spores as much as sitting motionless on the floor and hoping for the best. Still, it makes Pete feel a tiny bit less helpless.

If he flees… Where to go? Pete doesn’t know. Cities and old borders are obsolete, earth is sectioned off into zones determined by the only thing that matters now – whether _ Ophiocordyceps unilateralis _ rules over the land, or not. Earth has been scorched, flames and deadly fumes unleashed in foolish attempts to keep the parasite fungus at bay, yet in the end, what remained of humanity has mostly fled into what little safe areas there are. Heavily guarded, high walls, humanity’s last bastions, and whoever found himself on the outside has mostly found themselves greeted by fire and bullets.

Only selected few have been let in, those lucky enough to come from parts of the country that had been considered clean.

Pete’s just unlucky to have ended up in the wrong part of town.

He’s heard of a settlement nearby, supposed to be more lenient than others, but he’s never found it, never even found out if it’s real, or just a rumor made up by desperate people wanting to cling to one last shred of hope.

Most people have left, safe for the ones whose brain is already marred by the fungus, and the few lucky – or unlucky – enough to survive extermination attempts. Pete hasn’t seen a living human being in days. Weeks. It’s hard to keep track of time, anyway. All he sees these days are infected, or the piles of people already dead, their bodies rendered a feast and a fortress for the fungus to reproduce.

Humanity is something to behold, and the determination to stay alive can even overcome someone like Pete, who, to his own cynical surprise, finds himself slowly, carefully getting up. He’s crouching, trying to avoid being seen through the threadbare curtains; best not to attract further attention. The vague outline of the ghostly shape stand out against the fabric, they have occupied the doors – first place they’ll go, because however brain-dead they might be, they know that doors lead to somewhere, preferably a place with more humans – so Pete thinks it best to try his luck in the next room.

Carefully placing his steps to avoid any unnecessary sounds, Pete makes it to the other room. The knocking is duller, perhaps he’s lucky and none of the infected have gathered here.

When Pete looks at the window, he notices two things. The curtains are drawn back, exposing the looks to the outside; it’s a sunny Fall day, rays of golden light illuminating the dust dancing in the air, as well as someone – some_thing _standing outside. It’s barely tall enough to peek into the window, but in the second it takes Pete to look away, he’s already made eye contact. The thing standing outside looks like a tiny guy, all ragged and dirty safe for the clear blue eyes that meet Pete’s for the fraction of a second, before Pete turns away and ducks down.

Pete sinks to his knees, heart pounding in his chest as he hopes the creature hasn’t realized there’s still a living, breathing human inside this house, a potential new host for the greedy parasite. He knows his hopes are in vain when he hears the sharp knocking.

Hands over his ears, Pete can’t drown out the sound; it’s louder than usual, more force behind it, perhaps this one hasn’t been driven to exhaustion by the fungus yet.

Knock. Knock. Knock. Let me in. “Let me in. _Let me in!_”

It takes Pete a moment to realize that the voice is not the mantra inside his head, but coming from the outside. The infected can’t talk, cohesive speech patterns are the first thing to go once _ Ophiocordyceps unilateralis _erodes their brain, and yet Pete can hear the words, clearly articulated. Which can only mean someone alive is out there, banging against the window. That someone is screaming, basically begging the infected that surround the house to gang up on and attract even more.

And since Pete’s own not-yet-dead but certainly fucked-up and masochistic brain has decided it wants to stay alive, Pete jumps up, stumbles towards the window to open it, and reaches outside to grab onto the flailing arms of the screaming guy. A moment later, Pete has hauled him inside.

In the few seconds it takes Pete to close the window again and let down the blinds, the other person has already fled to the other end of the room. Pete was right, it’s a guy; a boy, almost, now that he can take a closer look. He can’t be taller than Pete, and under all the dust and dirt seems to be a face that looks way too young to be caught up in this apocalypse. A dirty knitted hat drawn over his dirty-blonde hair, clothes in disarray, his chest rapidly rising and falling as he breathes a little too fast. He’s not wearing a surgical mask, which either means he’s too cynic to cling to any kind of false hope, or he’s plain stupid. At least he’s stopped screaming. His lower lip, raw and red and chapped, is caught between his teeth.

“Stay the fuck away from me,” is the first thing to come out of said mouth.

“Fuck you, too,” Pete snaps back, angry voice kept low lest they attract more infected after all. “How about a thank you for saving your sorry ass?”

The boy scoffs, tugs at his hat. He doesn’t say thanks, but he doesn’t say anything else either, which, good. Now that Pete has time to think, he’s not too sure if he’s not regretting his hasty heroic choice. There’s a complete stranger with him now, invading his not-so-safe space and posing as yet another liability. Sure, the boy might be small, and he is probably just as exhausted as Pete, but that’s not saying much. If Pete has learned anything, it’s that desperate people do desperate things. If you have nothing left to lose, then common sense and human decency are easily abandoned in favor of fighting over resources, a place to stay, or just to stay alive.

For now at least, the boy cowers on the floor, and makes no attempt to fight. Blue eyes fixed on Pete, mouth drawn into a thin line, he tugs at his hat again. He’s looking at Pete with as much distrust as Pete has towards him, and even though his brows are furrowed, it’s obvious he’s as scared and afraid as anyone else in his situation would be. Trapped inside a potentially infected house with someone he doesn’t know, while outside, the dying keep knocking and howling in one last sleep-walking attempt at humanity – this is not where Pete wants to be, either.

And yet, here they are.

Outside, the infected are still knocking in their never-ending need to gain entry. Bruised, half-dead knuckles banging against the walls, some of them even end up dragging their nails across wood, stones, whatever might be in their way, their lack of ability to feel pain keeping them going until blood runs down their arms.

“We have to leave,” Pete hears himself say. It’s not like he asked for company, it’s not like he wants to have responsibility for a total stranger. It’s just that the moment he let this boy in, the danger they inadvertently face together had already tangled their fates, whether Pete wants to or not. He might be able to get rid of the kid, but until then, there’s another human being to be considered.

“Leave,” the boy repeats helplessly. He probably thought he’d find refuge here, that Pete’s silly heroic act of granting him access meant he’s safe, because he makes no attempt to follow through; he’s still cowering on the floor, arms slung around his legs, entirely useless.

“Yes, _leave_,” Pete declares with more confidence than he actually has, as if he isn’t lost or scared or sat on the floor like that just a few minutes ago, wondering whether death wouldn’t be more merciful. “We have to get the hell out, before more of them come. Your screaming certainly can’t have helped. So, let’s go. Unless you want to die.”

That seems to snap the boy out of his trance. “I don’t want to die,” he says so determined and yet so helpless, it makes Pete’s heart ache. It’s the very same sense of helpless but stubborn hopefulness that keeps Pete going, makes him get up and take a step towards the boy, holding out a hand.

“I said _stay away_,” is all Pete gets for his efforts.

With a scoff, Pete withdraws his hand. The _fuck you_ he has in reply remains stuck in his throat when Pete hears another sharp knock coming from behind. It’s fists against glass, followed by garbled-up vowel vomit.

“First floor. The bathroom window,” the boy says, “no one’s there, I checked. I wanted to get in there, I just couldn’t reach it, and - “

“I don’t care,” Pete interrupts him brusquely, “let’s fucking leave already.”

Pete turns around, doesn't look back to see if the boy follows him as he grabs his backpack and carefully makes his way through the messy living room and the rotting hallway to the bathroom. The window is just big enough to squeeze through, and from what Pete can see and hear, no one and nothing is standing close to it outside. Yet.

It’s sad that he has to give up yet another shelter; not that empty, abandoned houses are rare these days in a sector doomed to die. It’s just that Pete is tired of moving around knowing that he will never actually get anywhere. The scenery changes, but it’s still playing the same nightmare.

Well, it’s not like he has a choice – he hasn’t had a choice in a long time.

Behind Pete, the boy is clinging to the door frame, watching with uncertainty. Since he’s just standing around, and seems determined to stay away from Pete anyway, Pete doesn’t bother to offer him to go first. Instead, he reaches for the rusted window handle, eternally relieved when it gives in and lets him open the window. When he peeks out, all he sees is the unkempt lawn and the broken fence. It’s still a leap of faith, one Pete decides to take because if he ever chooses to die, it better not be in an old bathroom, surrounded by semi-zombies.

First, Pete pushes his backpack out the window, hoping the fall won’t destroy any of his food or tools. A moment later, his feet hit the grass with little grace. Pete bites back a curse as he stumbles forward, before catching his balance again, then turning around to hastily pick up his backpack. A moment later, the weird boy emerges from the window, hesitating one last moment before he drops down into the tall grass.

The boy is gasping for air, squinting his eyes as he looks around, before his gaze lands on Pete.

They look at each other for a moment. The air around them is stale and smells of death, and the haunting sounds of inarticulate groans and knuckles against wood completes the terrifying setting. Pete turns around, and starts to run.

Behind him, the boy follows.

The golden rays of the fall sun, no longer carrying summer’s warmth, paint soft light over the landscape. It is all too beautiful for the gruesome scenery.

Death and decay are everywhere now.

The dead piled up everywhere, be it the corner of the streets, inside empty-looking houses. There was no place to bury them, and not enough resources to cremate them. No one was prepared to face the death of that many people at once, and no one wanted to dispose of their remains, given corpses are the feeding grounds and prime source of spores. Whole areas are nothing but a parasite-infested necropolis, burned soil to crudely dispose of the dangerous dead. Mouths opened like they’re trapped eternally in silent screaming, skin discolored with decomposition, bloated or shriveled up, and their smell threatening their presence long before anything can be seen – death is a ghastly sight to behold, one that follows Pete into his frequent nightmares.

This sector is just far enough away from the mass graves that Pete has survived so far, but infected enough to be shut off from the sanctuaries. They stumble through the streets, full of rubble and wrecked cars, the marks of mass panic and (unsuccessful) flight attempts. The abandoned husks of humanity are reclaimed by nature already, in a surprising tempo. Grass sprouting everywhere, flowers and weeds breaking through cracks and concrete, trees shedding the last of their gold and red leaves. Earth doesn’t need humans; Pete is very much aware of that now.

“Where are we going?” Pete hears the boy say, still out of breath.

“Why are you even following me in the first place?” Pete asks irritated. “You tell me to stay away, and then blindly run after me? Make up your mind, kid.”

“I’m not a kid,” the boy snaps back in an offended tone that very much makes it sound like a lie.

Pete stops, and turns back to take another look at him. Small, hunched over, barely a hint of a patchy stubble framing his face even after days, if not weeks without a razor. “Oh yeah? How old are you?”

Defiantly, the boy sticks out his chin, and answers: “Twenty-one.”

Pete scoffs, raises his brows. “What year were you born in?”

The boy pauses, eyes widened. “Too long,” Pete interrupts before he can do the math, “you’re a terrible liar.”

With that, Pete turns around again. When he walks away, he can hear the footsteps following him. In truth, Pete doesn’t want to know how old he is. Doesn’t want to know his name, either. A name, a story, a life of his own – Pete doesn’t want to know any of that about this stranger with too-hopeful eyes.

It would make him yet another person that Pete will inevitably lose.

And yet, they keep walking together in silence, dawn coloring everything blood-red, and the cold gusts of wind carrying the sickly-sweet, putrid smell of rot.

Night is approaching soon, and shelter is needed. Pete has no time to scour the region, he has to take the next best abandoned house that looks the most intact and hope for the best. Breaking in is easy, now that Pete has had practice. No longer is he sneaking into the bedroom of his high school sweetheart, or the college dorm of the soccer captain; all that awaits is silence and emptiness.

The inside smells damp and musty, like any building no longer inhabited. No stench of death at least, no rotten corpses to be smelt. It’s not like Pete can tell if the air is actually clean of spores, or like the mask will help, but it does trick him into feeling a little more safe.

By now, Pete has some routine, and it’s frightful how normal these habits have become. Get inside, hope to have avoided the dead (still walking or not), search the house for anything useful from food to clothes to shelter. He’s very methodical by now, no time wasted, no resources left behind. Throw away anything moldy (as if there weren’t enough spores around), eat anything perishable as soon as possible, and keep canned foods and anything else durable as emergency rations in his bag.

It’s what he does every time he is forced to find new shelter, and it’s what he is doing now, regardless of the unwanted company or not. Strangely enough, the boy makes no attempts to fight over food or anything, he just withdraws into a corner as far away from Pete as possible, tugs his hat as he watches Pete with narrowed eyes.

Pete isn’t sure what to make of this at all. The kid has, against all odds, survived so far. Why’s he being so weird? Pete doesn't know what to make of him, and that’s making him more anxious than outright anger or aggressive behavior.

The kitchen cabinets are sparely stocked, but Pete finds something edible nonetheless. Pickled vegetables – the only kinds he sees these days – some rice and canned foods, it’s not much, but it’ll last a while. For now, Pete grabs one box of crackers, hesitates, grabs more crackers and turns around to the boy, still hiding in the corner.

“Don’t come closer,” he says, and it sounds less bratty and more insecure. Scared. Terrified.

“You’re a strange one,” Pete grumbles, but he keeps his distance. He sits down on, his aching back resting against the torn wallpaper. He sighs to himself, takes another look at the stranger sitting on the opposite of the room, then throws the crackers over to the boy.

The boy barely manages to catch them. “Thank you,” he whispers nonetheless, his voice almost inaudible even though there are no more infected banging their fists against the doors.

Pete says nothing, just carefully pulls down his mask to eat his share of their meager meal.

They eat in silence. The crackers are stale and taste like cardboard, but they’re edible. It’s better than nothing. Pete wasn’t aware just how much he’d miss certain foods. Sure, there are tons of canned goods left behind, which were considered to be contaminated and not worth taking, and it’s not like the infected will eat actual food anytime soon. There are resources (for now), and few people left behind to fight with over them. And yet, Pete hasn’t appreciated how much he has taken for granted that the apocalypse either wiped out, or at least severely restricted access to a scavenger like him. Fresh fruits and vegetables, milk, bread, meat – hell, without electricity, most frozen foods are lost, too.

Once they has finished, the boy wipes over his mouth, and sighs. He tugs at his hat again, which must be a nervous habit of his. “I won’t bother you for too long. I just – I just...”

“You just what?” Pete asks, brows furrowed as he tries to figure out what this stranger’s deal is.

“You’re the first person I talked to in a long time,” the boy says quietly.

What Pete wants to tell him is that he hasn’t talked to any other living person in a long time either. What Pete wants to tell him are things like _friendship makes no sense when all we can look forward to is losing each other_ and _your lips are too pretty_. What Pete thinks would be best to tell him is to_ go, get lost, and never come back_.

“Pete,” he says instead, “my name is Pete.”

For the first time, the boy’s pretty lips curl into a smile. “My name is Patrick.”

They don’t talk much more than that. Pete gets up again to scour the rest of the house for clothes and supplies, and Patrick doesn't follow him. Pete is kind of glad he doesn’t, because that way, Patrick doesn’t see how Pete is shaking, and how once he’s upstairs in the bedroom, he sits down on the old mattress, and buries his head in his hands. Being alone is miserable, but having nothing – and no one – to lose anymore is freeing. But _Patrick_ has a name now, Patrick is a real, living person, with thoughts and memories, with wants and needs and a too-cute smile and Pete can’t handle any of it.

There’s another crack in his heart already, added to the dozen cracks already inflicted to it with each loss of a loved one, of a stable home, of the goddamn future they were all promised only to have it betrayed. Patrick needs to leave, before he can leave any bigger impact on Pete’s already damaged heart.

Pete just can’t find the strength to tell him that.

What Pete does find are some new clothes (the apocalypse has made him appreciate clean socks and underwear), and memories of the former inhabitants that he doesn’t dare to glance at. There are photos, slowly fading, of a happy family of four, scattered paperwork that’s no longer useful, little personal items like razors and shampoo and a diaper bag all left behind. All these little things that once made up these people’s life, now rendered nothing but nostalgic trash, ghosts of a past that Pete has no right to be digging through.

These people are gone either way, so Pete doesn’t feel bad to take what he needs for survival. Whoever they are, they probably won’t come back. Most likely because they’re dead.

Back down, Patrick has finally gotten up. He’s fiddling with his hat again, and he looks even more nervous than before.

“It’s getting late,” Patrick mumbles, “I said I wouldn’t bother you, and – and...”

As much as part of Pete wants Patrick to go, he’s not a monster. “Don’t be an idiot. At least stay the night,” he offer with an eye-roll, “there’s some food and water, you can get some sleep, stay safe, take some supplies with you tomorrow.”

Sure, Patrick has kept himself alive somehow up to this point, but going out at night into an unsafe area full of God knows what and possibly infected by _ Ophiocordyceps unilateralis _or any other more mundane disease spread by hundreds of unattended corpses laying around – he won’t stand a chance. Pete can’t have that on his conscience.

There are other reasons he wants Patrick to stay, things like wanting to talk to another person or huddling up to protect against the cold or just anything that lets Pete know they’re not all alone in this apocalyptic nightmare of a world. He pushes those thoughts aside, just like he intends to push Patrick out of his life when the time comes.

Sadness tinges Patrick’s smile. “That’s nice of you, Pete. It’s just… “

“It’s what?” Pete asks, but as he takes a step forward, Patrick holds up his hands defensively.

“Don’t come closer.”

Patience has never been one of Pete’s virtues. Patience would be running low for anyone caught up in a pandemic that has turned most of humanity into brain-dead, walking corpses while the survivors struggle to remain alive by raiding abandoned houses with no greater hopes in life than to simply stay alive in the first place.

It takes some effort not to scream. “Really, what is your deal? Do you want my help or not?”

“I want your help!” Patrick assures, which kind of contradicts his entire behavior, and only Pete seems to be confused by that. “I just know that if you knew...”

Patrick trails off, doesn’t finish his sentence. Wide-eyed and in silence, he turns away from Pete again, and lowers his hands.

“If I knew _what?_” Pete is growing increasingly annoyed, and sort of anxious. “And don’t bother lying to me. We just met, and you’ve proven yourself a terrible liar already. Just go ahead and tell me.”

There’s no way Pete will let the boy get away with silence. As much as he doesn’t want to know him better, or worse, get attached, they’re going to spend the night under the same roof. Pete is entrusting Patrick with what little sparse possession he still has, including his very own life and well-being. He just wants to be sure that in the morning, he’ll actually get to wake up alive and well.

Slowly, Patrick reaches for his hat. Hesitantly, he tugs it down at first, before taking a deep breath, then taking it off.

More strands of dirty-blond hair fall into his face, messy and tousled. But that’s not what Pete is concerned with. What he is staring at, wide-eyed and in disbelief, is the left side of Patrick’s head, where through strands of greasy hair, the familiar shape of the parasitic fungus that has been eating away at humanity can be seen.

It looks surreal, no matter how many infected Pete has seen, no matter how many photos of the fungus had been circulated through the media back when society was stable enough to have a working news system accessible to everyone.

“What the fuck,” Pete’s voice is shaking, “what the fuck is this?”

Of course, Pete knows what this is. It has to be the _Ophiocordyceps unilateralis, _it looks exactly like it. It’s just that the host to the parasite is nothing like Pete has ever seen.

“You’re an infected. You’re one of them. You should be brain-dead and rotting away,” Pete says with a shaky voice, torn between hysterical laughter upon the completely fucked-up situation, and deep, existential horror of the unknown.

“I’m not,” Patrick points out, but Pete isn’t listening.

“You’re an infected,” Pete repeats, slowly and with horror as he realizes what else that means, “and you’re going to infect me, too! What the fuck is wrong with you?! Why did you have to get this close to me – why didn’t you tell me? I breathe the same air, I fucking _touched_ you!”

Pete is still halfway torn between horrified numbness and hysteria. The icy panic running through his body makes him shiver; he’s a deer caught in the headlights of a slow, but unavoidable death. He fumbles with his surgical mask, but decides it’s more than too late for that.

“I’m not dangerous,” Patrick shouts at him, “I’m not dangerous! I’m alive, and I’m not dangerous!”

“_Not dangerous?!_” Pete shouts back, and accusingly points at Patrick with a shaky hand. “You have the fucking parasite growing _right out of your fucking head!_”

“Don’t you think I know that? I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know what _this_ is,” Patrick says as, his hand hovering over the patch of parasitic fungus growing out of his skull, “all I know is that I’m alive, and despite the odds, I’ve been alive for a while. Whatever this is, it’s some kind of mutation that isn’t lethal, perhaps can’t even spread its faulty spores.”

“Good for you,” Pete spits out, “but why did you have to drag me into this? Why come to my little safe corner of this fucking awful world?!”

“I didn’t mean to drag you into anything! I just – I just...” Patrick trails off, shakes his head as he keeps fumbling with the hat in his hands.

Pete stares at him, stares at the disgusting-looking thing latched onto Patrick’s head, that tiny little plant that caused so much hurt.

“I don’t want to die,” Patrick says quietly.

“Well, you’re alive. You said so yourself,” Pete points out with much less scorn than intended. He is still waiting for the anger to take over again, for his primal instincts to kick in and urge him to run away, or get that source of danger out of this shelter and as far away as possible. It would only be sensible, wouldn’t it?

“I was scared. I had no supplies, no place to stay, and a bunch of infected were cornering the street. I just wanted to be safe.” Patrick lets out a deep breath, looks at Pete with a sad smile tugging on his lips. “And then when you helped me, when you let me tag along… It felt nice. I’ve been on my own for so long, it just felt so nice to actually talk to someone, to not be afraid for once.”

Pete says nothing, because he doesn’t want to say the truth – that it was kind of nice to talk to another person, to not be so afraid, to look at someone close his age with a pretty mouth and baby-blue eyes and wonder if maybe, under different circumstances, in a different time… These are luxuries Pete hasn’t had for a long time.

“I guess it was selfish,” Patrick mumbles, eyes fixed on the broken floorboard in front of him. “And I’m sorry. You – you didn’t ask for this. You don’t know me, you have your own problems, and – I’m sorry...”

Perhaps it’s Pete’s morbid sense of curiosity, his need to get up and face the apocalypse despite the futility of his bravery. Perhaps it’s madness, perhaps it’s the basic human need for social interaction, that desperate longing to talk to someone, anyone, who’s alive and breathing and whose brain isn’t rotting away – or at least, whose brain seems functional. Perhaps it’s because at this moment, even through the clouds of fear and panic, all Pete can see in front of him is a person who is just as confused and helpless and lonely as he is, trying to make sense of a world that is slipping through their fingers and turning into rotten corpses and dust.

What Pete wants to tell him is that he doesn’t want to lose the only person he’s seen in weeks that wasn’t out to kill him one way or another. What Pete wants to tell him are things like _I’m just as scared as you_ and _I don’t want to die either_. What Pete thinks would be best to tell him is to _ I am sorry, we both deserve so much better than to be trapped in this hellish nightmare_.

Pete isn’t brave enough to tell Patrick any of that. But he does shake his head, and say: “No, wait. You can’t go out there all alone at night. Who knows who or what is waiting in the darkness. And it’s cold, and rainy, and...”

“Oh, so now you’re suddenly concerned?” Patrick sends him an angry glare as he tugs his hat over his head again. “What the hell is your deal? Just a moment ago, you were screaming about me being a dangerous zombie - “

“Not what I said,” Pete intervenes, only for Patrick to glare at him again.

  
“Fuck you. It’s what you meant,” Patrick spits back, hands balled into fists.

Pete lets out a sigh, and crosses his arms over his chest. “Come on, kid. I -”

Patrick interrupts him this time. “_Patrick_. My name is Patrick,” he says harshly. “My name is Patrick Martin Vaughn Stump. I’m _Patrick_, okay?!”

With all the anger he can muster, Patrick manages to glare at Pete one last time, before he has to turn his head away and cover his mouth with his hand. As much as he is trying to hide it, Pete can see that he’s crying.

And the thing is, Pete gets it, he gets the sudden outburst. Because it’s been a long time since anyone has called Pete by his name, either – since anyone has even known who he was, his name, his fears and hopes, his story, everything that shapes him as a person.

“Patrick. I’m sorry,” Pete mumbles, more to himself than Patrick.

Patrick sniffles, discreetly wipes over his teary eyes. “I’m Patrick,” he repeats once more. “Maybe, you and I are the last people out there who know that.”

For a while, neither of them says anything. Patrick takes a few deep breaths, wipes his nose on the dirty sleeves of his jacket, while Pete uncrosses his arms, runs a hand through his unkempt, unruly hair.

“Well then. I’m Pete. Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the Third.”

Patrick turns to Pete, brows furrowed as he scoffs: “No way. You just made that up to mock me, right?”

“I did not,” Pete answers slightly irritated.

Patrick bursts into a short laughter, half-honest and half-hysteria. Pete thinks he should feel offended, it’s just that he hasn’t heard anyone laugh in such a long time, he’s forgotten how much he liked the sound.

“Ha ha. Glad that’s so funny to you,” Pete grumbles without really meaning it, and he can’t hold back a small smile of his own. It’s more tension-relief than anything, but it still feels nice.

When Patrick has calmed down, the tension between them has mostly vanished. Not all of it, but enough to make Patrick cautiously ask: “Hey, Pete. You meant it when you offered me to stay?”

Pete takes a deep breath. “I can’t let you die,” he finally says with way more concern in his voice than he intended to reveal. “You’re right. Whatever that thing is growing on your head, it’s not the regular parasite. Maybe, it won’t kill either of us.” A cynical grin tugs at Pete’s lips as he adds: “And if it will kill us, it’s too late anyway. If we die, might as well do it in good company, right?”

“_If_ we die,” Patrick says defiantly.

With these cynical thoughts in mind, Pete gets up, grabs his bag. “I’m going to sleep,” he announces, “whatever mess there is, we can deal with it tomorrow.”

Pete leaves Patrick behind in the former living room as he walks upstairs, scours the bedrooms for blankets and pillows. The mattress in the guest room is damp and moldy, and the one in the children’s room has a distinct, small but people-shaped stain on it telling a story Pete would rather not know about. He closes the door to that room with a little too much force, and decides that the master bedroom is his best bet. Since Patrick makes no efforts to claim any of the beds, Pete assumes Patrick is staying downstairs to sleep on the couch, away from him. Which is only logical, so why does it make Pete’s heart ache?

Pete tries not to think about it. Whatever answer he may find, he probably won’t like it. He’s just being silly, nostalgic for human company, and the apocalypse is causing him to jump to bad conclusions and bad emotions. Nonetheless, he brings Patrick some of the blankets and pillows found upstairs, places them as far away from Patrick (sitting on the floor, knees drawn to his chest, his eyes damp and red) as possible, lest he scares him again. Patrick doesn’t say anything, but he looks up just enough to send Pete the shadow of a smile.

As darkness claims the world around them, Pete lays in bed, staring into the black void. His mind is racing, and none of his thoughts are of any comfort.

Eventually, exhaustion takes over, and when Pete wakes up from troublesome dreams and a restless night, he finds himself as alive and well as one could hope to be these days. He’s disoriented for a moment, until he realizes where he is and why. And with whom.

The bathroom is dire and dirty, but still offers a sense of privacy and a touch or normalcy that Pete craves for despite the world having gone to shit. Hastily, he cleans himself with the baby wipes found in the diaper bag (water is sparse and sacred these days), and dresses himself. When he spares a quick glance into the broken mirror, the guy looking back at him is as ragged and exhausted as ever, but Pete could swear there’s a flash of hope in his eyes.

It is not disappointed when Pete finds Patrick downstairs, huddled up under the blankets, still sleeping. To wake up to another human being, to the prospect of talking to someone, or even simply the comfort of knowing that he’s not all alone in this abandoned, forgotten old house, makes Pete more happy than it should. So much for not getting attached to this stranger. Pete bites his lip, turns away, and decides to distract himself by finding them some breakfast. Life would be so much easier with electricity. Alas, all Pete has is a precious, precious camping cooker tucked deep inside his bag that can only be used sparsely, now that there’s no way to conveniently order the refill gas tanks on the internet. So, can opener and cold soup it is.

Pete is halfway through his meal when he hears Patrick stirring on the couch, groaning a little as he sits up, rubs his eyes. He watches as Patrick goes through the various emotional stages of disorientation, confusion, realization and lastly something between fear and hope when their eyes meet.

“Good morning,” Pete says casually, because honestly, he doesn’t know what else to say. Life hasn’t prepared him to wake up to a cute but somewhat terrifying stranger with a potentially lethal parasite growing from his skull. “Would you care for some food?”

Patrick stares at him, squints his eyes, says nothing as he draws the blanket tighter around himself.

“Are you cold? We could find you some new clothes. I checked, there should be something that fits you. Better than that threadbare shirt of yours.”

Patrick looks as overwhelmed and confused as Pete feels, too. “Food would be nice,” is what Patrick eventually manages to bring out.

Pete cocks his head, shoves a spoonful of cold soup into his mouth. “I’m afraid you’ll need to get up and get it yourself,” he says between two bites when Patrick doesn’t move. “Look, we can’t avoid each other forever. We have to live under the same roof now. You don’t need to love it, you don’t need to cuddle with me, but you can’t keep making a big show out of it.” Pete holds up a hand before Patrick can interrupt him. “I appreciate you wanting to look out for me, but let’s be real. If that mutant parasite fungus of yours is infectious, I’m already screwed. We might as well drop the pretense.”

“I guess so,” Patrick just mumbles as he absentmindedly tugs at his hat, then draws the blanket tighter around his shivering frame again. He’s careful as he walks over to Pete, as if any second now, Pete could change his mind and run away, or lounge forward to hurt him.

Of course, Pete does neither of these things, he just hands Patrick the canned food, a fork, and the can opener. Patrick struggles a bit, before he manages to open it. He hands the can opener back, then retreats to the sofa to eat. Pete sighs to himself, but decides to say nothing.

As they eat, all they can hear is the heavy rain and the wind outside. Pete would’ve preferred to scout out the surroundings, but not under these dire weather conditions, and when a simple cold can quickly become lethal.

“Thanks,” Patrick says when he’s done eating. “When the weather has cleared up, I can go look for more food nearby. I don’t know the area, but there might be something worthwhile out there.”

Well, that means Patrick’s staying. Pete doesn’t know how to feel about that, which is why he decides to deal with that later. Or, preferably, not at all.

Still, they’re trapped inside a rundown abandoned house in the middle of the apocalypse, with nothing to do but wait out until the weather clears up. Across the room, Patrick looks small and lost; Pete keeps staring at him, lost in his own thoughts. Who knows what and who is left out there – Patrick might have a point. They might be the last people to know of each other’s existence.

Pete blames it on that melancholic thought when he hears himself say: “So, Patrick. Tell me about yourself.”

Patrick looks at him funnily, his lips twisted into a disapproving frown. Pete wishes that the world was still intact, so he could allow himself more inappropriate thoughts about pretty boys on the couch.

“Why?” Patrick asks, confused.

“Why not?” Pete asks back. “You got anywhere to be?”

“No. But why do you care?”

“You said it yourself. The two of us might be the last people left to know about each other. And I’d like to know more than just your name.”

Unsure of what to make of Pete’s words, Patrick shifts on the couch, tugs at the blanket again. Pete thinks his request isn’t all that inappropriate. The apocalypse has blurred the lines, has sped up how people get to know each other and make decisions, like whether to share their food and shelter or kill one another. Tomorrow, anyone or everyone could be dead.

Patrick takes a deep breath. “Well, since you asked...”

Pete learns more about Patrick than just his name. He learns that Patrick is nineteen, from Chicago as well, that he can play the drums and half a dozen more instruments, he learns about Patrick’s long list of music genres artists he likes (and dislikes) and what sort of movies he is into.

All these tiny glimpses feel like little precious pearls carefully handed to Pete with the silent promise that he won’t forget, that he will be the second person out there in this lonely, scary world to know who Patrick is.

As much as Pete doesn’t like to linger too long on the lost past, he cannot resist to dig up some old memories as well. Of friends and movies and music, things long gone and perhaps lost forever, of vivid pictures of a world that no longer exists. It doesn’t matter. Patrick listens.

After a while, Pete pauses, heavy words lingering on his tongue; they’ve haunted him for a while, and who knows when or if he will ever get a chance to say them? “Do you remember where you were when the world came crashing down for good?” Pete asks, more to himself than to Patrick. “I was away for college when I got a call from my parents one day. They told me not to come back home.”

“I’m sorry,” Patrick says softly.

Pete shakes his head, lets out a bitter scoff. “I didn’t listen. I didn’t want to believe. But by the time I got home, I no longer had a home – or a family. Just ruins, and scorched earth. I was lucky I got out there before they combed the sector again, or they would’ve put me in quarantine.” Pete makes air quotes around the word _quarantine_, because what quarantine usually means is getting dragged into whatever building is available to hold a large group of people until they’re all dead from either _ Ophiocordyceps unilateralis_, or any other disease spreading thanks to the missing hygiene and medication. Quarantine is nothing but a slow, painful death on rates for everyone unlucky not to just catch a merciful bullet to the head.

“My family all died from the fungus. I was the only one who – well, _thought_ I was the only one who didn’t get infected.” Patrick draws his knees to his chest, and tugs at his hat. “For a while, I traveled with friends, tried to get away… As you can see, that didn’t work out so well. Now, I’m all alone again, with a scary parasite leeching off my body.”

Pete cocks his head, and tries his best to send Patrick a smile. “Hey, you have me.”

Patrick shrugs, then buries his head in his arms. Pete sighs, and looks away. Whatever else he could say, it wouldn’t be enough. Pete can’t bear the weight of the world for him. He still barely even knows Patrick, who’s only here because of ill fate and incredible coincidences and because of the world going to shit.

“Are oyu from one of the settlements around here?” Pete points to Patrick’s head. “Did they throw you out because of… You know?”

“No,” Patrick answers with a slight frown. “We were on our own. I didn’t even know there was a settlement nearby. I thought this sector was dead.”

“I heard there is one, I just never found it.” Pete shrugs, and Patrick doesn’t push it.

“I’ve given it some thought,” Pete says after a while into the lingering silence. “Whatever it is that has infected you, it’s different. What if it’s the key to a cure? What if it holds the secrets necessary to fight back against the pandemic, what if we could all be saved?”

Patrick lifts his head just enough that his narrowed eyes look right into Pete’s. “That’s totally not a lot of responsibility to put on me,” he says, sounding more tired than snappy. “I don’t know, Pete. Maybe, I just got lucky. Who knows, I might die any day… Nothing is for sure.”

“But really, think about it!” Pete gestures towards Patrick, with nervous excitement in his voice.

“And then _what_?” Patrick asks, frustrated. “Who am I going to tell? There’s no one out there, Pete. Just the dead, and the raiders. The few settlements left, they’d shoot me on sight. So would the military, if there even still is one. And even if, against all odds, I make it, if I don’t get shot or kidnapped… What will happen next? They’ll run tests on me, they’ll tie me down and cut me open and prod and poke at me until I die, or they find what they want. Or both.”

That sounds frightfully believable, if Pete is being honest. Nothing brings down manners and morals like the good old end of the world.

“It seems like a small price to pay for humanity, doesn’t it? Until _you’re_ the scared stupid little kid who’s supposed to be of any help when really, all he does is trying to survive, trying to stay alive and not getting any more hurt than he already has.”

Pete sends him another attempt at a smile. “You’re not a stupid little kid. You’re Patrick.”

“Thank you.” This time, Patrick smiles back.

For a while, all that fills the room is the sound of the heavy rain outside, some distant thunder, and the heavy wind tugging at every corner of the house. Patrick, still wrapped up in his blanket, keeps shivering. They can’t make a fire inside, so Pete decides that at least, some more clothes are necessary.

“Come on, Patrick. You’re cold,” Pete says, “let’s find you some more clothes, and maybe another blanket.”

Patrick shrugs, but he gets up and follows Pete upstairs.

The master bedroom is still the same mess as when the previous owners left, supposedly in a hurry. Pete can picture it, the people on the faded photographs coming to life in his head, running around in a panic as they try to remember what to pack accordingly to the survival kit lists circled around by the government as well as very doomsday prepper out there.

Pete has already picked out some of the more useful clothes yesterday, everything that’s warm and practical and hopefully isn’t full of holes or bugs. He holds the shirt out to Patrick, and when Patrick reaches for it, Pete’s eyes linger just a tad too long on Patrick’s lips as his fingers (accidentally or not) brush over Patrick’s.

For a moment, they just look at each other in silence. Pete holds his breath as a wave of emotions he forgot he was even capable of hit him all at once, make him feel hot and cold at the same time as he nervously licks over his own lips, before his gaze flickers down to Patrick’s once more. Blood is rushing into his cheeks, and it’s ready to rush elsewhere.

There’s realization, then determination written over Patrick’s face as he sends Pete a defiant glare, and slowly, painfully slowly takes his ratty old shirt off.

Patrick’s skin is ghostly pale, smooth and inviting to be touched. And oh, Pete has never wanted to touch someone so badly. The soft curve of Patrick’s throat and Adam’s apple, the hard outline of his collarbone, pink nipples stiff from coldness, and a trail of reddish hair, getting darker and thicker below the navel, teasing what’s hidden below.

There is no time to think with death looming over them. There is no time to catch up on lost shy kisses and stolen moments of careful intimacy and tender touches with the world outside rapidly turning into one giant graveyard. There is no way Pete can resist the temptation right in front of him when there’s nothing but darkness everywhere else he looks.

Death might be worth it, Pete thinks as his hands dig into Patrick’s hips, and his mouth finds Patrick’s.

There are soft lips and rough hands, warm tongue and cold skin, sweet sighs and salty sweat. It’s madness, and yet, only logical. It’s dangerous, but when has that ever not enhanced any dubious sexual encounter? Impending death and danger are the ultimate aphrodisiac, and the apocalypse delivers plenty of each.

Pete kisses Patrick, frantic and greedily, and Patrick reciprocates with the same fervency. They’re messy and hasty and uncoordinated, hands all over each other’s bodies, with Pete having gotten rid of his shirt now, too.

Patrick fumbles with Pete’s pants, before he finally manages to sneak his hand into them, palming Pete’s dick through his underwear, the last threadbare barrier between them. And oh, Pete can’t help but draw a sharp breath, the almost-touch of another person enough to make him shiver. Every inch of his skin is on fire, and his cock feels burning hot in Patrick’s cold, trembling hand. Patrick hesitates for a moment, like he expects Pete to shove him away. Never, oh, never, it’s the furthest thing from Pete’s mind. He arches into the touch, urging Patrick to stroke, pull, tug, anything, just anything.

That helps to settle Patrick’s doubts enough to trace over Pete’s dick, rub over the head, feel the damp spot at the tip. It’s clumsy, but it’s so much better than Pete’s own hand. And when Pete closes his eyes and cups Patrick’s chin to draw him in for a kiss, he can almost pretend they’re someone else, somewhere else.

Satisfied with that, Pete’s hands wander down, intending to reciprocate the gesture.

Instead, Patrick sinks to his knees, shoves down Pete’s pants and underwear. Pete’s cock springs free, hard and aching to have Patrick’s hands on it again.

It’s been so long, and Patrick is so beautiful. It’s been so long, and no one knows how much longer there is left. It’s been so long, and Patrick is just so eager. When he closes his fist around the base of Pete’s dick, Pete gasps. When he leans in and lets his little pink tongue lap up a drop of precum, Pete groans. When he parts those stupid gorgeous lips and takes him in, Pete thinks he might be close to sobbing.

The warmth of Patrick’s mouth embraces Pete’s dick, deft fingers dig into his thighs as Patrick takes him in further. Pete leans his head back, his hands against the wall, less to support himself and more to keep them away from Patrick’s head. He’s still wearing the hat, and Pete knows what it’s hiding, gross and gruesome and not what he wants to think about right now. Not that it matters – yes, oh yes, with Patrick’s cute mouth on his cock, Pete once more concludes that death most certainly would be worth it.

Through the grim silence, he can hear, he can _feel_ Patrick moan around his cock, and the vibration makes Pete jerk his hips, impatient and greedy. Patrick groans, his hand on Pete’s too-sharp hipbones now to gesture him to stop that. Pete thinks he might be stuttering something that vaguely resembles an apology, although he can’t be sure. His head is spinning, and all he can focus on is that immediate, desperate sense of pleasure, that burning need for relief low in his belly. Patrick is surprisingly good at this, and Pete wants to savor every moment.

That’s why Pete whines, loudly, when Patrick withdraws his mouth, coughs a little as he gets up again.

“I think I’d like some fun, too.” There’s something hiding behind Patrick’s glare as he says so, although Pete can’t figure out what.

“Sure,” Pete slurs, he’s so fucking hard, he’d promise anything just to get off. Before he knows it, Patrick has taken off the rest of his clothes as well. Pete catches a glimpse of Patrick’s dick, red and angry between his legs; the next moment, Patrick is on the bed already, on all fours, ass up in the air. God, it’s such a good view, and if Pete had the time and brain capacity to appreciate it, he totally would.

As for now, Pete just stares as Patrick sends him another glare that’s somewhere between sullen and sultry. Then, Patrick shoves two fingers into his mouth, sucks on them for a bit, a thin line of drool running down his chin. Pete knows where this is going, and yet, his cock twitches as he watches Patrick slide the spit-wet fingers between his legs, rubbing over his entrance, teasingly, testing, until he slowly sinks them in.

Eyes fixed on Patrick slowly fingering himself open, Pete somehow manages to stumble over to the bed, sit behind him. Hands on Patrick’s cheeks, Pete spreads him open further, watches with glee as Patrick’s pale fingers slide in and out of himself. Part of Pete wants to lean in, drag his tongue over Patrick’s ass, cleft, his tight little hole, until Patrick is all wet and open and begging for him. He’s not sure Patrick would appreciate that though, and Pete is not about to ruin the mood that close having a chance to fuck him.

Then, Patrick withdraws his fingers, groans as he presses up to Pete and fuck, Pete wants nothing more than to sink his cock into him. Instead, Pete rests his dick on the small of his back, precum dripping down on Patrick’s porcelain skin; just spit and some hasty fingering are dire conditions for sex, even in the apocalypse...

“Come on, no need to be coy,” Patrick hisses through gritted teeth. “With the world outside dying, every guy can pretend a little when I’m on all fours.”

Pete only scoffs. “I don’t need to pretend,” he says, and then he handles Patrick to lay on his back. Patrick makes a surprised noise, and Pete grins at him. “You’re not my first guy.”

“Well, you aren’t my first either,” Patrick retorts snottily. What he doesn’t say is what Pete is thinking, too – that they could be each other’s last.

“Stay like that,” Pete instructs him as he gets up, reaches for his backpack. In his small first aid kit, he finds what he’s looking for – a jar of Vaseline, advised as essential for everything from helping with dry skin to starting a fire. Not to mention, as makeshift lubricant. It’s not ideal, but it’ll do.

“Thoughtful,” Patrick comments, brows raised as he watches Pete slick up his fingers. “I would’ve let you fuck me anyway.”

That’s because we’re two stupid, desperate boys lost in mayhem and chaos, Pete thinks. “You wanted fun,” is what Pete says.

Patrick lets out something between a laugh and a scoff, then leans back into the pillows, spreading his legs a little further. It’s an invitation to stop talking and focus on other things, and Pete is glad to do so. He slides two slicked-up fingers into Patrick, revels at the moan it gets him when he finds Patrick’s prostate. Patrick isn’t a talker, but he’s loud, and Pete could listen to him moan under his touch forever. It doesn’t matter that noise could attract more danger, or that Patrick’s pretty blue eyes, half hidden under golden lashes, aren’t looking at Pete.

Three fingers into Patrick, and the anticipation makes Pete grit his teeth. Thankfully, Patrick must feel the same way, because he grabs Pete’s arm, and motions him to stop.

Hastily, Pete coats his cock in more Vaseline, then he lines up with Patrick’s entrance. They don’t have a condom, and Pete spares a brief cynical thought on STDs, before deciding that’s probably the least of his concerns given he’s going to stick his dick into the host of a deadly parasite. Patrick has kept his hat on, but that’s not enough to fool Pete into completely forgetting what’s underneath.

They are both too eager, too desperate, too turned on; Pete pushes into Patrick with all the restraint he can muster, watches as Patrick’s eyes widen once he’s halfway in. Patrick doesn’t say anything, but Pete stops, rubs soothing circles over Patrick’s thighs as he waits. It’s hurting enough already, there’s no need to add physical pain on top of the emotional misery.

Eventually, Patrick’s breathing evens out, and he relaxes enough to let Pete slide all the way into him. Ah, and he feels heavenly, hot and tight and wanting, and he looks stunning, his lips red and damp from Pete’s kisses, his pale skin blushing from his touches.

Patrick wraps his legs around Pete’s waist, digs his heels into Pete’s back and urges him to move. Together, they work out a rhythm, Pete thrusting his hips and Patrick arching his back, his hand wrapped around his dick, stroking himself. Patrick’s eyes are closed, and Pete wonders if maybe he’s imagining someone else fucking him. That would be fine with Pete, because he’s imagining someone else as well, a different Pete in a different world fucking a different Patrick, a desperate dream that still sends a shiver through his spine, no matter how unobtainable it may be.

With each thrust, Pete is getting dangerously close to coming. He doesn’t want to stop, but he doesn’t want to come just yet either. Who knows when and if he has the chance to fuck Patrick again, so he wants it to last, draw it out as much as possible. It’s hard to hold back when Patrick feels so good, when he continues to make all these needy little sounds that only fuel Pete’s lust. And then Patrick cries out with pleasure, clenches down hard around Pete’s dick as he comes all over his hand and belly. Pete fucks him through it, rough and greedy and barely able to not just give in and come with him.

Afterwards, Patrick slings his arms around Pete, draws him even closer, legs still wrapped around Pete’s hips. Pete takes that as permission to come inside of Patrick, the thought alone making him groan as he continues to thrust into Patrick’s fucked-out hole. Patrick mewls, overstimulated and his hands trembling as his blunt nails dig into Pete’s skin, scrape over it, sure enough to leave a trail of red. But he doesn’t let go of Pete, and with one last thrust, Pete finally comes, buried deep inside of him. The breathtaking pleasure of the long-anticipated orgasm makes Pete moan something that might resemble Patrick’s name.

As the afterglow wears off, Patrick slowly relaxes, loosens his anxious embrace enough to allow Pete to sit up, and pull out. Sated and tired, Pete lays down next to him, close enough to smell the sex and sweat, far away enough that their bodies don’t touch. Fucking is one thing, intimacy another.

For a while, neither of them speaks. Patrick is breathing hard, and remembering how out of breath Patrick had been the other times he’s been physically exhausted, Pete wonders if he’s got something like asthma. For Patrick’s sake, he hopes that’s not the case in a world where medical supplies are a rarity. Pete thinks it’s best to stop thinking altogether. He’s drifting halfway between troublesome thoughts and half-awake daydreaming when Patrick’s voice pulls him back into reality.

“Hey. Think you can get it up a second time?” Patrick asks, his voice sounding almost calm and rational, but his intentions surely being far from that.

“Sure,” Pete answers, part defiant and hurt pride, part eager for another round of base instincts and pleasure dulling out everything else.

They go slower now, without the acute sense of urgency, without the underlying worry that either of them will come to their senses and back out of it. Patrick is on all fours, and Pete thinks that’s okay, he has proven his point that he’s into guys as well, and he doesn’t need to see for a second time how Patrick’s eyes don’t meet his.

When they’re done, Pete feels drained and raw, both emotionally and physically. Patrick next to him still has his face buried into the pillow, his hands loosely clutching the stained sheets. Despite everything, he must be sore, he’s probably as exhausted as Pete is, and the cold air has him trembling again already.

Carefully, Pete scoots closer to him, soothingly rubs a hand over Patrick’s back. “Hey,” Pete whispers, and he hates himself for how much his voice is shaking, “with the world outside dying, do you think you can pretend a little longer, so I can hug you?”

Patrick lets out something that could be anything from a sob to laughter – these days, these two are too close to each other, the emotional barriers blurring into one another – but he rolls over so Pete can spoon him.

Pete throws the blanket over them, then draws Patrick into a tight embrace. He’s cold and tense in Pete’s arms at first, but ever so slowly, Patrick relaxes into the touch, and after a while, he’s stopped shivering. He smells like musk and sweat and unwashed boy, and his hat (which, Pete assumes, Patrick never takes off) _reeks_, but Pete can’t bring himself to care.

“Why aren’t you pushing me away?” Patrick says in a small voice. “What is this, some kind of apocalyptic Stockholm syndrome?”

Pete shakes his head, although he knows Patrick can’t see it. “Just shut up and let us enjoy the moment.”

“_You _shut up,” Patrick retorts snottily, and Pete can’t help it, he has to laugh at the absurdity of their situation, has to laugh hysterically until Patrick turns around with a miffed expression, has to laugh until his tears, no longer born from cynical amusement, wet Patrick’s skin as he hugs Pete closer.

Strangely enough, when the tears have dried up for good, Pete feels better. Catharsis outweighs the catastrophes, allowing Pete to take a deep breath only to notice that a tiny bit of the constant aching weight on his chest is gone.

Pete sits up, rubs over his eyes. Next to him, Patrick sits up as well, shivering again as he slings his arms around his knees as he watches Pete with something that could be concern. He doesn't ask, and Pete is thankful for that, because what could be said that can’t be summarized by just pointing to the mess around them?

“You’re cold,” Pete finally says, “let’s find you something warm to wear.”

The rainy weather and low temperatures demand them to stay inside for today. Patrick, huddled up in a too big, but comfy hoodie with the logo of a university neither of them will ever get to attend, has agreed to help Pete patch up the salvageable clothes they found around the house. Neither of them has any talent for sewing, but they’re good enough to crudely stitch together pieces of fabric or close up holes, enough for it to last a while. They don’t talk much, but it’s a comfortable silence. Patrick hasn’t fled Pete’s presence, which is why Pete was brave enough to sit with him on the somewhat comfortable sofa. The food won’t last two people for too long, but Pete decides that’s a problem for the future. For now, they have enough to fill their bellies and gather the strength necessary to go out and search for more food the next days.

When daylight is long gone and some of the candles they found around the house have burned down, Pete can’t fight the exhaustion any longer. Whether he can find sleep or not, all he wants is to lay down and close his eyes and try not to worry about what might come tomorrow – if tomorrow comes at all.

Upstairs in the master bedroom, Pete restlessly tosses around as the wind and thunder outside howl at him.

Then, there’s a knock at the door. A soft knock that makes Pete jump up, terrified and scared as he stares at the bedroom door. Another knock, _knock knock_ , oh God, no, please, no, _knock knock knock, can I come in?_

It takes Pete a moment to realize that the voice was real, not just a mockery in his head, as the door opens, and Patrick is standing in the door frame, huddled in his blanket, repeating the question. “Pete. Can I come in?”

“Don’t,” Pete says in a thin voice, “don’t you_ ever_.”

Startled, Patrick takes a step back.

“They knock. The infected, they knock, and they never stop. They never, ever stop.” Pete knows he’s rambling, but the words just spill out his mouth. “They keep knocking, and they keep trying to imitate whatever old self is still buried deep inside their dead brains, and I can’t – I can’t...”

Patrick cocks his head, looks at Pete thoughtfully. “Is this about me?” He asks softly as he tugs at his hat. “I can go if you want.”

“No. No, don’t go.” The initial panic has worn off now that Pete has realized that it’s just Patrick, asking for entrance like a normal person would. But a cold, lingering fear stays, that vague, existential anxiety that always hums through everything Pete thinks or does. Being all alone again in the darkness of the night seems nothing but utterly terrifying. “It’s not about you. Please don’t go.”

Much to his relief, Patrick doesn’t go. Instead, he walks over to the bed, sits down next to Pete. Patrick hesitates, then asks: “If I stay, do I have to pretend?”

“No,” Pete says softly, “no, you don’t.”

“Good,” Patrick whispers as he lays down next to Pete, tugs at his blanket so it covers them both. “Because I liked it when you hugged me.”

“That’s great,” Pete says, somewhere between a smile and a sob, “because I liked it, too.”

Patrick smiles back at him, then rests his head on Pete’s chest. With Patrick in his arms, Pete feels a little less lost.

The warmth, the weight, the presence of another human being, safe and secure and so close to him – Pete thinks it might be worth whatever life or death holds for him.

The golden autumn sun watches as Pete and Patrick, equipped with warm clothes, some useful tools, and an extra backpack, make their way through the neighborhood. So far, they haven’t seen anyone, dead or alive. It smells like earth and wet leaves, and nature is colorful these days. A big part of the street is destroyed, either burned down or collapsed, too dangerous to enter. Rubble blocks some of the passages, cutting off whatever may be behind. Lacking the time, tools, and manpower to handle any difficult or perhaps even dangerous areas, Pete thinks it best to stick to the easier accessible targets.

Little is left in the lone supermarket they can find; most of it has been taken by the panicked crowds as the pandemic came closer, or by lone groups of raiders scavenging the landscapes left behind. They try a few of the houses that look the most promising and the least like the might hold anything dead or deadly, and they get lucky on the third try. It still holds a good amount of food and other useful objects. Best of all, in the backyard, there’s an apple tree, ripe with more fruits than they can carry. Once their bags are filled, Pete urges to search the house once more, just to check if they missed anything, and to see what else they can take on their second trip.

Pete is going through one of the bedrooms, looking for anything of use. He finds a hat, which he decides to take for Patrick, but otherwise, there’s not much left. Some more clothes, and luxuries of a past life rendered useless when bare survival is necessary. Pete tries not to look at the walls, full of posters of bands and movies, photos of friends or family long gone, the display of a personality that Pete would rather not think about because he knows this room is most likely the only thing left of it, save perhaps a rotting corpse somewhere.

It’s a knock that tears him out of his usual grim thoughts.

Reflexively, Pete turns his head, sees that Patrick is standing nearby, eyes widened with shock as he shakes his head to silently signify he’s not the one who knocked.

Then, there’s more knocking, fists banging against the walls, screeching incoherent voices mixed with fingernails scraping over wood and stone until their broken and bloody. They knock, one last mockery of their dead humanity, they keep knocking, the parasitic fungus in their brain oh so eager to infect new hosts.

It’s Patrick that tears Pete away this time, grabs his arm and drags him out until Pete’s brain has caught up with reality, and realizes they need to _run_.

They make it far enough away that the knocking and screaming can’t be heard anymore, before Patrick almost collapses. The way he gasps for air scares the hell out of Pete, who can barely provide basic first aid, let alone any medication; if the apocalypse has taught him anything, it’s that people not only die of grand, scary things like _ Ophiocordyceps unilateralis_, but also just the mundane, minor incidents and diseases that the comforts and advancement of the 21  st  century have always taken care of.

Luckily for Pete, Patrick produces something out of the depths of his pockets that confirms what Pete suspected – it’s an inhaler.

“You had that with you all along?! Why the hell are you using that just now?” Pete asks, torn between being anxious and angry as he pats Patrick’s back, not knowing what else to do. Patrick flips him off, before he sits down on the file of leaves and rubble of the torn-up street. Pete continues to rub his back, more to reassure himself than Patrick, as he nervously looks out for anyone (or anything) dangerous that might’ve heard them.

“’s not much left. I need it for emergencies,” Patrick mutters after a while. “Fucking end of the world is not kind to anyone in need of medical help.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Pete says as he thinks back to the good old days when there where sleeping pills and anti-depressants available to anyone as privileged as himself. Nowadays, there’s no more health insurance, money is worthless, and medication isn’t manufactured anymore, at least not for those outside the safe zones.

Patrick takes a deep breath, then he gets up again. “I’m good,” he declares, “let’s grab what we saved, and make sure we get it home.”

Pete wants to say _next time, we’ll raid a pharmacy_. Pete wants to say _please don’t die_. Pete wants to say _am I really home to you?_

Instead, Pete sends him a soft smile, and says: “Yeah. Let’s go home.”

They make it back to their shelter before the sun sets. They’re hungry and exhausted and Pete’s shoulders ache from the weight of the bags, but they made it back safe and secure and even with some useful stuff, from food to a flashlight and batteries to a new hat, which Pete hands to a confused-looking Patrick.

“What’s that for?” Patrick asks in a sharp voice as he eyes the knitted black hat. “Does mine not cover up my infections well enough, hm?”

Pete crosses his arms over his chest. “No. It’s just that yours reeks of sweat and dirt.”

“Ha, like _you’re_ smelling of roses,” Patrick mutters, but he does take off his old hat, and tugs the new one over his messy hair and that part of his skull that has parasitic fungus growing out of it. Pete only catches a glimpse of it, but it still makes his stomach drop. Seeing it makes it so much more real than just thinking of it. With Patrick’s lips pressed into a thin line as he tugs his hat down further, Pete decides it’s best not to speak of it.

Despite that, Patrick’s mood brightens soon. They have food, they have water, they have warm clothes and they have the comfort of each other’s presence as they feast on canned food and fresh apples. Afterwards, they sit on the sofa together, huddled up under the blanket for warmth, and Patrick sneaks his hand into Pete’s, breaks the comfortable silence between them when he asks: “How long have you been on your own?”

Pete shrugs. “Ever since I ran back for my family to the ruined suburbs of Chicago. I found only death, and by the time I came back to where I left my friends, I only found more death. I haven’t seen any of them ever since… Sometimes I wonder if they’re still alive. The cynical side of me says no.”

There’s nothing much to say, nothing to make it all better. Patrick squeezes his hand, and Pete squeezes back, glad for the simple, but comforting gesture.

“With my family dead, I was doomed to get caught up in quarantine. My boyfriend, he… He was the one who helped me get away. For the most time, we were traveling together. His name was Joe,” Patrick says softly, and smiles to himself. “I’ve been with guys before, but Joe was the first I fell in love with – and lucky me, he loved me back just as much.

In the following silence, Pete imagines the end of that story. Given he’s found Patrick all alone and scared, it doesn’t take much to come up with a dozen scenarios all coming to the same dire conclusion.

“He died,” Patrick simply states, and he tugs at his hat as he hurries to add: “Not because of _that_, you know. It wasn’t any form of the fungus. After everything we went through together, running and hiding and scavenging, laughing and crying and the first outbreak of the parasite on my own body… After all that, it was just pneunomina and a lack of antibiotics. Stupid, right? I’m the guy with asthma, and yet my boyfriend died because of his lungs. I’m the guy hosting a deadly parasite, and yet I’m the one alive...” Patrick trails off, words replaced by tears now as he angrily wipes over his eyes, bites his lip to hold back a sob. “Joe died, and now I’m the only one who remembers him.”

“You’re not the only one anymore,” Pete says quietly, and although there are still tears in Patrick’s pretty blue eyes, there’s a small smile on his lips as he rests his head on Pete’s shoulder. Pete slings his arms around him, holds him until Patrick’s crying has calmed down to an occasional stifled sob.

Tonight, Patrick doesn’t even have to ask, Pete just motions him to join him in bed upstairs, and Patrick follows wordlessly. They only kiss, softly, almost shyly, without any of the dire urgent lust that brought them together at first. “I’m scared to lose you, too,” Patrick whispers in between two tearful kisses, “I’m so scared I’ll lose you too, Pete.”

“I’m scared as well,” Pete whispers back, “I’ve been scared ever since I met you that I’ll have to say goodbye to you one day.”

It’s strangely comforting to know Patrick gets it, feels the same way. “I don’t regret it,” he says after a while, “whatever happens, I’m glad I met you.”

Pete raises his brows. “Does that mean next time we fuck, you’ll actually look at me?”

Surprisingly enough, that doesn’t get him the anticipated angry reaction. Patrick looks more sad and thoughtful as he answers: “Only if you promise to look at me as well.”

“I never took my eyes off of you.”

“Liar,” Patrick says fondly as he reaches out a hand to trace over Pete’s cheek.

“I meant it!” Pete defends himself, but he leans into the touch. “Though I wished I could see us both in a better, happier place.”

“One day, maybe...” Patrick trails off, sighs to himself as he cuddles up to Pete. Holding Patrick in his arms already feels like the most natural thing to do, like it was always meant to be. Pete fleetingly thinks it’s too late for either of them to back out, it’s too late to avoid getting attached, too late to not get hurt.

With Patrick in his arms, warm and safe and sound asleep, looking so peaceful, Pete again thinks this might be worth it.

No matter how extraordinary the circumstances, no matter how weird and hostile the world may be, humans are creature of habits. They need routine, and no matter how strange the routine may be, it gives a little sense of comfort, a tiny bit of security in a world where nothing is safe anymore.

Wake up next to Patrick, enjoy a few more minutes of shared body heat as Fall outside brings colder and colder temperatures with it. Get up, clean up a little depending on what means of personal hygiene they have at the moment, get dressed in the least dirty set of clothing. A shared breakfast, then the day begins. Sometimes, they go out to scout for more food, map out the area, although they’re increasingly less lucky these days. There’s not much left aside from ruins and the lingering threat of the infected passing by, dying anywhere near them and poisoning water supplies and spreading their parasitic fungus to the unlucky.

They do find a pharmacy, they find Patrick a new inhaler, and without a word, Patrick packs every bit of antibiotics left into his bag. It’s not much, they’re not the first to break in and take whatever is in sight and seems useful, but it’s better than nothing. That’s one of these days where they don’t talk much as the pain of the past looms over them, a harsh reminder of what is lost and what will never be. Patrick cries himself to sleep as Pete holds him tight, occasionally pats his back, and doesn’t bother to feed him sugarcoated lies.

Sometimes, they’ll stay inside, patch and repair their belongings, clean up, amuse themselves with whatever treasures they found. There are books, carefully collected (although these days, no one can afford to be overly picky in their taste in literature), an actually complete set of cards, a battered old guitar so close damaged and so out of tune, it can’t be fixed, even if Patrick insists on it. There’s no use in arguing, and sometimes, the truth doesn’t matter. Sometimes, the little dreams and delusions are what keeps them going. What would be the point in telling Patrick his efforts are hopeless, and that oh so many instruments, along with whatever other art humanity has produced, have been forever?

Pete lets him obsess over the broken instrument, and in turn, Patrick brings him every notebook, every bit of paper and every pen or little stub of a pencil he finds. He never asks Pete what he’s writing, and Pete appreciates that Patrick knows when to give him space, that he doesn’t mock Pete for doing something so seemingly useless to survival as to scribble down fervently whatever runs through his head.

It’s the little things that make Pete feel alive, make him feel like he’s still a human. Like he’s actually living, instead of just trying to stay alive. Playing around with the little radio they found, even though he never gets a signal. Sitting by the light of the candle, getting lost in the fictional world of a book. Being able to sit down and write, even if it’s just a messy flow of words. The rare occasion they decide to get out the little camping cooker and actually have a warm meal, or heat up some water to clean themselves with; the smell of soap and the sound of Patrick’s laughter as they drag a washcloth over each other’s dirty bodies. When he leans in to peck a kiss to Patrick’s pretty lips, and when said lips kiss him in turn.

The parasite growing out of Patrick’s skull is still there, looming over them. As far as Pete can judge, it hasn’t grown much – at least not on the outside. Patrick refuses to have it touched, refuses to do anything to it, and Pete can’t quite blame him given how little they both know about Patrick’s unusual situation. Patrick doesn't want to talk about it, and Pete doesn't ask. Patrick doesn’t want to talk about it, so Pete bites his tongue and doesn’t suggest to go and see if maybe, there is still someone out there willing to help.

Sometimes, Pete looks at Patrick and he wonders, what if. He wonders what would have happened had they met another time, in another world, under different circumstances. He wonders what his life would have looked like had he pushed Patrick away, if Patrick had left, or if they had never met at all.

Sometimes, Pete looks at Patrick and he wonders, is it love? Is love something that he’s still capable of feeling, even, is it a luxury neither of them can afford, or a basic human need that prevails, reclaims its space like nature takes over the abandoned buildings and landscapes again, turns them into something beautiful and alive once more.

Sometimes, Pete looks at Patrick and he wonders, is what he feels for Patrick real? Or is it born out of dire circumstances, just another coincidence, because there’s no one else to love?

Whatever answers there might be, Pete might never find them. Whatever answers there might be, they probably don’t matter.

Such a peaceful, quiet life can’t last. Not here, not now. Pete knows it, Patrick knows it, and that’s why there’s a silent agreement to just keep going, enjoy every bit of the peace they fought so hard for, and deal with trouble only once it actually catches up on them.

And trouble does catch up on them.

It’s not too surprising, they both knew that at one point, there would be problems. Be it a wave of infected, rotten corpses, a military raid, or a bunch of other people ready to kill if it means their own survival, or maybe even just something as mundane as a terrible storm.

In the end, what happens is what Pete feared the most – they wake up one morning to the sound of knuckles on wood, nails scraping over stone, shrill voices trying to imitate speech. They knock, as they always do, demanding to spread doom to new hosts. As much as Pete hates that sound, as much as it terrifies him to the very core, there’s a strange sense of calmness when he reaches out a hand, finds Patrick next to him, awake and scared but just as determined to stay alive as Pete is. Pete tugs his surgical mask over his mouth as they gather what little belongings they can carry, and then they’re out in the cold, running until Patrick urges Pete to stop, and go slower.

Despite how predictable their situation might have been, neither of them really know what to do next. All they have for now is a small abandoned house at the far end of the district marked as their emergency shelter, which should do for a night or two until they have to leave, lest they get caught up with more infected and the deadly fungus they carry. For now, they make it there alive, and find their stashes of food and water untouched, meaning that at least no hostile humans have visited.

Not having talked about their future – or lack thereof seems very stupid now that Pete is standing in the tiny, moldy hallway, the damp, stale air noticeable even through his mask. He watches as Patrick tosses the bags into the tiny bedroom, leaves them mostly packed in case they have to escape again. They eat a sparse breakfast, mostly in silence, as they watch the sun rise. Fall is almost over, the trees standing leafless now, the colorful autumn and last breath of summer having turned into dust. There’s frost outside these nights, and the beauty of the white glitter of a frozen landscape promises a first taste of the harsh winter yet to come.

While he contemplates how the two of them are supposed to survive winter, Pete is fumbling with their radio, absentmindedly and without much care until suddenly, through the endless statics, words can be heard. Pete takes a sharp breath, fumbles with the radio until he gets a signal again. It’s pretty bad, not much can be understood, but Pete can make out it’s not one of the automated emergency broadcast. It’s not some madman talking to himself either, no; he can make out single words and half sentences that form a greater picture that makes Pete’s heart beat faster.

It has to be that elusive settlement rumored to be in the area, the one Pete had believed to be overrun by _ Ophiocordyceps unilateralis _ or abandoned. But they still have a radio signal, and although the coordinates given out aren’t much use to Pete, he understands the basic instructions of how to find the sector.

Pete stares at the little black radio, and once he’s over his initial shock, he calls Patrick’s name. “You have to listen to this,” he says when Patrick joins him with a puzzled look on his face. “There has to be a settlement nearby, we can pick up their radio signal. It’s real, Patrick, it’s real!”

Patrick does not seem to share his enthusiasm. “I see,” is all he says, nonchalantly and as if this wasn’t something big.

“Think about it!” Pete says, his voice sharp and his hands balling into fists as he looks around the rundown room. “A settlement nearby, maybe we could try… I mean, that’s what we will do for the rest of our sad, short lives? Run away, hide, hope to survive? Is that all we have, temporary shelters and two backpacks as we live off whatever scraps the collapsed society has left us?”

Patrick stares at him, eyes narrowed, hands balled into fists as well. “Oh, that’s your great idea?” He asks, scornful and angry. “Trust a bunch of armed strangers? Get us killed by the lunatics in the settlements who will probably shoot us on sight? What if it’s a trap? What if – what if…”

Pete takes a deep breath. “Look, Patrick, I don’t know how to fix the apocalypse. I just want us to be safe. To have a roof over our heads that’s not in constant danger of collapsing. To have food and water and some space that belongs to us. Maybe, some other people, friends, someone who can help out, a community. Don’t you want any of that?”

There’s a spark of hope in Patrick’s eyes, no matter how hard he tries to look stern. “How do you know they’re friendly? How do you know this isn’t a trick?”

“I don’t,” Pete admits with a sigh. “I don’t. But I know we can’t keep running forever. I know winter is coming soon, and we might not have enough resources to survive. I know that I’m tired of running, and that I want us to be safe.”

“_Safe_,” Patrick spits back at him as he tugs at his hat, “I haven’t been _safe_ ever since this stupid world went to shit.”

With that, Patrick storms out of the room. There’s nowhere to go really, the house is small and the outside is dangerous, but it’s clear Patrick wants to avoid him, and Pete thinks with tensions running so high, it’s best to grant him that space. Pete spends the rest of the day huddled up next to the radio, notebook on his lap, scribbling down all the details about where to find the settlement and whatever else he can gather.

It’s not until the evening, when Pete is sitting in bed already huddled up under three blankets, still scribbling into his notebook in the dim light of some candles, that he sees Patrick again. Patrick wordlessly slips under the blankets, shivering as he cuddles up to Pete. Pete just lets him, puts the notebook away to embrace Patrick; he finds it hard to pretend to hold a grudge when Patrick feels so warm and comfortable in his arms.

“I’ve thought about it,” Patrick says quietly into the thoughtful silence. “And I’m scared, Pete. I’m so scared. I don’t want to die. I don’t want _you_ to die.”

Pete pulls him closer. “I’m scared, too.”

“You have a point. That settlement… There have to be more like us. People who survived, people who laugh and cry and fear for their loved ones. There has to be something left, scientists and research equipment and hospitals – there has to be something, right? If I could help them… If I could help _you_ – if I knew I could do that, that there’s a chance, no matter how small… I’d want to take it.”

“Are you sure?” Pete whispers, trying to appear calm and collected even though his heart is pounding in his chest, anxious and excited.

Patrick clings closer to him, and answers: “Sure? Yes. Scared? Even more so. But if there’s a way to save you, a way to spare someone like us all the fear and pain…”

“No one will hurt you, I promise,” Pete declares defiantly. “I’ll protect you.”

“I know you will,” Patrick says softly, a melancholic smile tugging at his lips. He knows as much as Pete how impossible that promise might be to keep, but that doesn’t matter right now.

What matters is that Patrick slides a cold hand under Pete’s shirt, mumbles an apology into the curve of Pete’s throat as Pete shivers under his touch.

It feels like the storm has cleared, and its wake has left some destruction, has left both of them with hurt pride and fear, with worries about whether they made the right decisions or not. Despite that, it’s strangely calming. A big step forward – if the floor under their feet will crumble, only time can tell. But it’s better than standing still and waiting as trees and plants grow over ruined buildings, and a fungus feasts on humanity’s corpse.

The candles paint a soft light over Patrick as he leans in to kiss Pete on the lips. “You look gorgeous,” Pete whispers afterwards, cups Patrick’s face in his hands.

“’s a waste of resources,” Patrick says with a nod towards the candles, the smile on his lips belying his scolding words.

Pete grins back at him. “Oh, shut up. It’s the best use for candles ever.”

“_You_ shut up,” Patrick retorts, sticks his tongue out at Pete. They both have to laugh, and it takes the tension away, helps to make the future feel a little more hopeful.

Wherever they’ll go, between Patrick’s legs will always be Pete’s favorite place to be. He’s beautiful spread out on the bed like that, naked in the golden shine of the candles, all porcelain skin and copper hair, his rips less protruding then when Pete first met him. Pete leans forward, leaves a trail of small kisses from Patrick’s throat to his chest until Patrick groans impatiently. Pete takes his time, tongue mapping out the hard outlines of Patrick’s collar bones, pink nipples stiff from the cold, goosebumps and shivers; further down, he knows Patrick’s dick is just aching to be touched. While Pete’s mouth still explores Patrick’s chest, his belly, the outline of his hip bones, his hand slides between Patrick’s legs, teasingly tugs at Patrick’s growing erection. Patrick still isn’t one to talk, but he’s as vocal as ever, moaning and hissing as he arches into the touch, searching for more.

Pete grins to himself, then finally, his mouth is on Patrick’s dick as well, ghosting a kiss over the velvet-smooth head. Patrick moans again, louder this time, as delightful as all the other little noises he makes.

Pete gets to work for real now, parting his lips to take Patrick in; the familiar taste of salt and musk, the heat of arousal, Pete won’t ever grow tired of this, glad he ever even got the chance to be able to suck Patrick’s dick in the first place. Whatever price the world may place on that, Pete is willing to pay.

On one of their trips, they attained actual lube; luckily, such luxury items were left behind by the people fleeing the parasite, to be found by two grinning guys trying to have a love life even if the world might have ended. It takes them a moment to find it, since it’s still packed in their backpacks somewhere instead of being conveniently located nearby.

Back in bed, Pete picks up where they left off – his mouth on Patrick’s dick, and it doesn’t take him long to get Patrick hard again. Two of Pete’s slicked-up fingers work their way into Patrick as Pete keeps sucking him off. Patrick adjusts quickly, even more so when Pete finds his prostate, and urges Pete’s mouth away from his cock.

“Fuck me,” Patrick whispers wantonly, blue eyes fixed on Pete. These days, he looks at Pete when they have sex. Most of the time. In his cynical moments, Pete wonders what Patrick really sees, if he’s lost enough in the moment to forget the sadness looming around them, how much of it is romance and how much is the need to reassure himself that Pete is looking back at Patrick instead of turning his head away in fear disgust.

Right now, Pete doesn’t think that far. All he knows is that the lascivious grin Patrick sends him is an invite to stop worrying, and Pete is eager to follow. The head of his dick nudges Patrick’s stretched entrance, then breaches the boundaries of his body. Pete is careful, and Patrick doesn’t have much trouble taking him. They figured out each other’s limits, their preferences and dislikes, how to handle each other’s bodies. Pete starts moving, slow at first, eager to work out a rhythm. But then Patrick puts a hand on his chest, urging Pete to stop. “Let me ride you,” Patrick whispers, and a moment later, Pete is on his back, with Patrick straddling his lap.

Slowly, Pete slides back into Patrick’s tight heat, watches Patrick’s face as he sinks down on Pete’s cock; lips parted for a silent sigh, eyes unfocused, a blush spreading over his cheeks. The flickering candlelight paints a warm glow to his pale skin, tinges everything in faint gold against the darkness of the night.

Patrick leans forward, his hand finding Pete’s, lacing their fingers together. Pete wraps his other hand around Patrick’s dick, smirking at the satisfied moan it gets him.

Patrick comes first, coats Pete’s chest and stomach with streaks of white as he clenches tight, tight, tight around Pete’s cock until Pete can’t hold back any longer. Hands digging into Patrick’s waist, Pete bucks his hips, whines as Patrick tightens around his cock again; Patrick leans in to kiss Pete as pleasure overwhelms him, and he comes inside of Patrick.

Slowly, Patrick lets Pete’s softening cock slide out of him, then climbs off Pete’s lap to snuggle up to him. For a while, neither of them speaks; Patrick traces patterns with his fingers into Pete’s skin, while Pete looks at him thoughtfully.

Eventually, Patrick turns his head to look at Pete with a soft smile as he whispers: “Tomorrow is a new day. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Pete smiles back at him. “It really is.”

They fall asleep in each other’s embrace, warm and safe from the threats of the cold world outside – at least for tonight.

When Pete wakes up, the dim light of the morning sun shines its light through the dusty windows. Patrick is still sleeping, and Pete allows himself a few more stolen moments of cozy, comfortable cuddles and shared body heat. Then, Pete carefully entangles himself from Patrick, who makes a small noise in his sleep, but doesn’t wake up. He looks so peaceful, and Pete decides to let him dream a little longer.

The small bathroom provides sparse light as Pete looks at his face in the cracked mirror. The face staring back at him looks exhausted, with bags under his eyes even after a good night’s sleep, and a stubble that’s in dire need of a razor. Still, aside from the usual side effects of an apocalypse, Pete thinks he’s doing fine. He’s hopeful, smiling to himself as he runs a hand through his greasy, unruly hair.

It’s there, in the dim light of a cold winter morning, that Pete sees a small patch of fungus sticking out of the right side of his head.

Pete’s heart skips a beat, and he has to grip the edge of the cracked sink to not sink to his knees. Slowly, Pete leans in to closer inspect himself, and for sure, there it is, tiny and lost among his thick curls, in it’s early stage of growth, but it’s there. The same mutation of _ Ophiocordyceps unilateralis _ that plagues Patrick, now sprouting from Pete’s own skull.

It looks utterly wrong. Out of place. Disgusting. Panicked, Pete takes one last closer look, but alas, it’s still there, the telltale grey-ish brown against the black of his hair. Pete stumbles backwards, slings his arms around himself and digs his hands into his biceps until it hurts to stop himself from going with his first instincts – to scratch and tear at the infected skin until he’s torn out the despicable parasite. It would be pointless, given that whatever is visible is just a small part, most of the fungus having spread inside his skull, perhaps even inside his brain by now. Touching it might make it worse. Patrick hasn’t dared to touch it, but he’s doing fine.

_Patrick_. Pete cringes at the thought of having to tell him about his infection. It’s going to hurt, both of them, and Pete has no idea how either of them will deal with this. If he’s being honest, Pete doesn’t feel too surprised – if anything, he’s probably lucky that it took so long for the spores to finally win out and inhabit his own body.

A knock on the door tears him out of his worries. Guiltily, Pete hastily runs his hand through his hair again, as if that could hide anything. “Just a minute,” he yells absentmindedly, too focused on staring at his reflection and all the ugliness it shows.

Another knock. _Knock. Knock. Knock_. “Patrick, I said give me a minute,” Pete yells again as he leans back, takes a deep breath, and runs his hand through his hair one last time. It doesn’t hide anything. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, the guy in the mirror is still the same.

With a sigh, Pete turns to the door, and freezes when realization hits him.

The silence suddenly feels unbearable.

“Patrick?” Pete asks tentatively, the anxiety aching in his chest making it hard to breathe. He waits for a reply, but everything remains eerily quiet.

“Patrick? This isn’t funny. Say something,” Pete demands as he stares at the closed door. “Patrick, please, answer me!”

Each second of silence feels like eternity. Bile rises in Pete’s throat as he balls his hands into fists, his heart aching with the desperate hope that this is a bad dream, a mistake, that any second now, he will hear Patrick’s voice, loud and clear.

Through the agonizing silence, only one thing can be heard.

_Knock. Knock. Knock. _

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, everyone!
> 
> If you liked this fic (or don't, and you hate me now) let me know in the comments below!  
And don't forget to check out all the other awesome fics in this challenge!


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